‘I heard your call but I was far from you. Get away from the fire and head towards the mountains, I will bring Jatha and your people to you. You must be ready to close the gateway when our orb reaches its height thrice from now.’ And with that, he was gone.
Denser collapsed on to the ground. ‘Give me a moment,’ he said. ‘Move when you get too warm, eh?’ said Hirad, indicating the flames and smoke scant yards away. ‘Good move into that smoke, by the way, but a pity he saw you landing. Work on that for next time.’
Denser looked up, anger in his eyes, but it evaporated when he saw the smile on Hirad’s face. ‘Funny, Coldheart. Very funny.’
Hirad reached down his hand. ‘Come on, Denser, we’ve still got a long way to walk.’
Chapter 31
Lord Senedai awoke to the smells of campfires, cooking meat and damp, and the sounds of Shamen leading their warriors in songs and chants calling for the alignment of spirits and the ancient lords of war to be with them this day.
He rolled over on his low pallet, eyes to the slightly billowing roof of his tent. He listened to his men, he caught the whisper of the wind through the camp and he sighed, a deep slow exhalation, before sitting upright and rubbing a hand across his face and through his knotted hair.
‘Attendant!’ he shouted, and his tent door was pulled back immediately to admit a tall young warrior, barely more than a youth. His tanned frame was hard-muscled beneath a tight-tied sleeveless grey shirt and his hair was cropped to his scalp as his rank dictated.
‘My Lord.’
‘Battle furs and breakfast,’ ordered Senedai.
‘My Lord.’ A half bow and he left.
Senedai dragged himself reluctantly from his bed, walked a little stiffly to the door flap and pulled it open a crack. Outside, the pre-dawn gloom was deepened by a misty rain that fell from a heavy sky, punctuated only by the cook-fires dotted around the camp. He set his jaw and moved back into the relative warmth of his tent.
‘So much for the songs of fortune,’ he muttered. A damp battlefield was all he needed. Yes, blood would slick the ground underfoot but rainfall on grass would make the ground slippery from the very start and he had a feeling they would need every bit of help they could get despite their overwhelming numerical superiority.
During his sleepless night he had gone over every option, wishing fervently his catapults weren’t still in Julatsa, awaiting the move to Dordover. He could attempt to simply overrun the enemy, sheer weight and press of numbers driving their bodies into the mud, but that was a charge he would have to lead himself and he found no desire to die this day.
He ate and dressed quickly and walked outside into the slowly lightening sky, to be accosted by a tribesman who thrust a message into his hands. It was unopened.
‘Who brought this message?’
‘A fast rider from Understone, my Lord. He arrived just before you awoke.’
Tessaya had sent word. Excellent. Senedai turned away and unsealed the message on his way to the nearest cook-fire with enough light to see by. He made his way through a mass of warriors sharpening weapons, hefting furs, practising strikes or just talking among themselves, and everywhere the sounds of a camp coming to life filled his ears. Dogs snarled and barked, orders were shouted, fires crackled and popped, tent sides thumped, loose guys snapped and song filtered from all sides. It was hard not to feel confident. The enemy had nowhere to run and it was obvious to even the untrained eye that they were too few.
Yet Senedai felt doubt deep in the pit of his being. And reading the message from Tessaya multiplied his fears. He had hoped to see his Lord marching over the fields to make victory certain that very morning. But there had been a change of plan. Tessaya had had word from the remnants of Taomi’s army that a large force was marching from the south. Senedai was to complete his task with no further help, the message said. Tessaya would join Taomi’s forces and crush the southern enemy. They would then muster on the road to Korina while reinforcements shored up the defences of Julatsa.
Victory was assured, the message ended. The Spirits smiled on them and the enemy gods would look away. Tessaya had made certain of that.
But Tessaya wasn’t facing what Senedai faced. And as the sun lightened the sky to reveal the masked force standing stock still on the ground in front of the ruins just as they had as night fell, the Wesman Lord quailed inside and prayed for an answer to present itself that could save him from humiliation.
Behind him a dog barked and a harsh voice silenced it. At least there was part of the answer. He dropped the message in the fire and summoned his Captains to issue battle orders.
In the light of late afternoon, General Darrick sat around a hastily erected map table with Blackthorne, Gresse and a tired Communion mage. The Wesmen had stopped and dug themselves in, scouts reporting that Tessaya and the southern force remnants had managed to connect.
‘What is all this about?’ asked Gresse. He’d just heard the Communion report and both he and Blackthorne faced Darrick blankly.
‘Look, there’s things been going on you know nothing about. I’m sorry not to have told you but there didn’t seem any point and we all had axes to grind against the Wesmen anyway.’
‘What exactly?’ asked Gresse carefully.
‘This is going to sound preposterous but it’s all true, I swear it,’ said the General. He looked round to make sure they weren’t overheard. ‘There’s a . . . a hole in the sky over Parve. It’s growing and when its shadow covers the city at noon, dragons will invade. Don’t ask me how or why, but they will. The Raven and Styliann have ridden to find a way to close the hole. He went back to Xetesk, and they went to Julatsa. I was left praying they would make it and now it seems obvious they have.
‘But now the Wesmen are threatening even themselves, ridiculous though that sounds, and we clearly have to stop them.’
‘But why have the Wesmen chased them? I mean we’re talking about ten plus thousand running after what they think is six people.’
‘Yes, but they think that The Raven are going to bring back dragons. I mean, they’ve got it hopelessly wrong but that’s what they think. And it makes them very difficult to deal with.
‘More than that,’ continued Darrick. ‘It explains why Tessaya went on the move. Look.’ He indicated the map. ‘Tessaya’s plan was to march on Korina when his southern army sacked Gyernath and his northern took Julatsa, thereby removing supply all the way, north to south, from the strongest Colleges, Xetesk and Dordover. Lystern he can leave until later. He has thousands of men in reserve to defend both cities and the pass so he is relaxed. He also knows, or thinks he knows, that co-ordinated defence of the East is non-existent so even though Dawnthief has removed the Wytch Lords and his own magic, he still believes he can take Balaia. So he wants Korina next to cut off principal west-east supply and break Balaian morale.
‘But not everything went right. For a start, Gyernath survived its onslaught and still stands. To add insult to injury, you two and your motley band of farmers’ boys—’ he imbued the term with complete reverence and respect ‘—have taken the rest of the southern force apart, something he has only become aware of very recently. Next, The Raven reappeared in the East as did Styliann and I, and they desert a siege situation and presumably through torture in Julatsa he has answers to why, but the wrong ones.
‘He knows he has to move fast so he begins to destroy as he moves, knowing we still can’t take the pass and having to hamper our resupply at every stage he can, hence Understone. He is on his way directly to Korina but he doesn’t want to lead us straight past Septern Manse and leave any chance that we can stop his other army - also on its way to Korina, by the way - from catching and killing The Raven. I’d do the same if I held the superstitions they do. On their own, The Raven have already destroyed apparently indestructible forces and he’ll be sure they can do it again. Best not to take chances. Best to see them dead.’
‘So he’ll fight us just to stop us reaching Senedai?’ Gresse’
s expression was sceptical.
‘For one, but also because it’s better to fight us there than outside Korina where he thinks, again mistakenly, that we would get significant help. Possibly even enough to defeat him.’ Darrick’s heart was racing and he could see the pieces slot themselves into place in the minds of the Barons.
‘But all that is immaterial if Senedai kills The Raven,’ said Blackthorne. ‘Because, if you’re right about these dragons . . .’
‘. . . the only chance any of us, Wesmen or Balaians, have is if Senedai is stopped,’ finished Darrick.
‘And Tessaya won’t believe us,’ said Gresse. ‘Gods falling, I’m not even sure I believe us.’
‘Just say all this is right, how long can the Protectors hold out? Long enough to see The Raven complete their task? Long enough for us to skirt Tessaya and hit Senedai ourselves?’ asked Blackthorne.
Darrick shook his head. ‘As to The Raven, I don’t know. All I do know is that we won’t get around Tessaya, not an army this big. He already has us scouted.’
‘So we’re going to fight him?’ Gresse looked less than upset at the idea.
‘If we fight and win, it’ll take two days minimum. No.’ He smiled at what he was about to say. ‘We’ve only got the one choice and, far-fetched as it is, we have to have his help.’
‘So?’ asked Blackthorne, though Darrick could see he knew the answer and was already fighting with thoughts of placing his need for vengeance to one side, much as Darrick himself was doing.
‘So, we’re going to march right up to him, as quickly as we can, look as powerful as possible and then we’re going to persuade him to send a message to Senedai.’
Hirad had known it would be beautiful, the feelings in his mind when Sha-Kaan had spoken of it told him that, but he hadn’t imagined the half of it. They had climbed several hundred feet up a steep-sided rocky slope with the deep orange sun beating down from the same blue sky that had lain above them ever since their arrival in the dragons’ dimension.
The remainder of their journey had been a nervy rush across the fire-ravaged plain. The surviving travellers had reformed an hour from where the Veret dragon’s attack had taken place and while The Raven were unhurt, barring a few scratches, only Cil and two Protector brothers remained of the six that had come through the rip, and Jatha had lost seven of his people.
Styliann had remained quiet about what he had seen as his Protectors died but the flinch he had given when a Kaan dragon overflew them on the way back to its homelands was all the information Hirad had really needed. The Xetesk Master had been pale and clearly shaken and, for the first time, Hirad had actually felt a little sympathy for him.
The battle in the sky had been won, just, though Hirad had felt Sha-Kaan’s sorrow as he had spoken of singling out one Brood, the Veret, for attack until the Kaan had driven them off, breaking their spirits and a fledgling alliance between enemy Broods. But, in a notable change to his attitude, he had detailed a quartet of Kaan to shadow their journey despite the extra attention the action would inevitably bring.
And so they had travelled, humbled by their experience and all too aware of the awesome destructive power of even a single dragon. No more was that evidenced than by the plain they left after a further day’s travel to move into the rocky foothills of the mountains they had seen from the dead forest. Looking back, they saw the scars and open wounds that would probably live on forever.
No longer did the plain shimmer in its pale blue and red frond-topped light as far as the eye could see. Now, beneath a huge shifting pall of smoke and ash, a yellow and orange glow told of the fire still burning, consuming the stunning vegetation, voracious and insatiable in its appetite. Where it had burned itself out, the land was blackened and smouldering, laid waste to its roots and beyond in the heat of the consumption. The vegetation was resilient and would sprout again but that thought made the sight no less terrible.
‘Just one dragon,’ The Unknown had said as they watched with hypnotic stillness the countless miles of smoke and flame. ‘Just one.’ His words had speeded their ascent.
Now here they stood, The Raven, apart from the rest as befitted the Dragonene of the Great Kaan and those pledged to help him, and looked down for the first time on the Kaan homeland. The slope they had climbed had flattened into a pitted rock plateau which swept to a point jutting out over the homeland. As they stood at its edge, the rock beneath them formed an overhang, arcing down and out of sight the Gods knew how far below. And all around them was a different world.
Left and right below them, a carpet of shifting green lay covering a wide valley, the walls of which were just visible through the veil. Massive leaves waved gently, attached to huge boughs that sat darkly beneath the surface and Hirad could only imagine the size of the trunks from which they grew. Across the undulating surface, the sun’s orange light shot delightful rays of colour through pale strands of mist, and the stark backdrop of white peaked mountains tumbling down to dark flatlands completed the serene picture.
But that alone wasn’t the beauty Hirad saw. In the sky above the canopy, the Kaan wheeled and dived, lazy beats begetting long, graceful glides as they circled while those entering the trees from above swept their wings back and shot past, golden bodies sparkling in the orange glow as their bodies spun, dragging vortices of mist after them as they disappeared.
And they called to each other. Sounds of welcome, of farewell, of sadness, of love and of enduring devotion. To the Brood, to each other and to their home. The calls were brackish and guttural, or haunting hollow cries that echoed from the valley walls. They tugged at Hirad’s heart and senses, filling him with the warmth of belonging and the emptiness of the war that stole Kaan from the sky each day.
Hirad felt the strength falter in his legs and he crouched, one leg under him, his right hand on the ground as he rocked forwards, watching. He could have stayed there all day, such was the majesty of the Kaan and their homeland. He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up. It was Ilkar.
‘Can you believe it?’ asked Hirad, gesturing at the awesome view all around them, his eyes again on the Kaan and the trees and mist covering their valley, a warm moist breeze blowing in his face.
‘If I live to be five hundred, this will be my abiding memory as I die,’ said the elf, the magnitude of it all plain in his voice.
‘Never mind Balaia. They’re too busy grasping for themselves, most of them. This is what we’re really trying to save. And this is why we can’t fail.’ Hirad stood up, wiping damp eyes. To his left, Jatha gazed down on the homeland with an almost stupefied expression on his face.
‘Home,’ he said.
‘See what it means to them? He must have seen this a hundred times but just look at him.’
Ilkar nodded. ‘We all want this to work, Hirad, and your reason is probably more compelling than most but I think you need to be realistic about our chances.’
‘Tell me on the way down. I think Jatha is anxious to get there, as am I.’
Jatha led them to a stairway carved from the stone of the mountain on which they stood. Steep and moss-covered, it swept under the overhang, twisting and turning through cleft, behind waterfall and around the enormous boles of the trees whose leaves hemmed in more strands of mist, building clouds the further down they went.
Descending through the dancing, orange-striated cloud, the atmosphere closed in hot and damp, vision was impaired and the stairs became slick and wet, treacherous to the unsure foot. Ahead of The Raven, Jatha and his men scampered down with practised confidence, Jatha’s voice at odds with his movement as it periodically echoed ‘Careful!’ up through the mist.
But for the Balaians the way was far slower. Leaning into the rock wall, which ran with water or was covered with a thin film of slime, they kept away from the far edge which plummeted down through the mist to death on the valley floor.
Hirad, walking behind Ilkar, had decided not to ask any questions until they breached the mist but when they did, it was a
long time before he could find any words. In a few paces, the mist had thinned and cleared beneath the leaf layer, giving them their first view of the Kaan homeland.
A vast flat space of rock, grass and river stretched under the mist which reflected a gentle, warm light on to the land below, giving the homeland a tranquil aspect, easy on the eye. The river which meandered through the centre of the valley was a sparkling blue and the sounds of water reached them across the still, humid air from falls which fed the river in a dozen places he could see. The grassland was a luxuriant deep green tipped with red and blue just like the plain and, given the connected squares of close-cropped and waist-high stalks, was clearly tended and harvested for some purpose.
The buildings scattered along the valley sides, some low, flat and half-buried, others dug deep into the rock of the valley itself, seemed purely functional. But one magnificent structure dominated the Broodland. With its polished white stone gleaming in the filtered sunlight, its dome and towers striking towards the sky yet dwarfed by the extraordinary sculpted wings whose tips all but touched the mist above, Wingspread was a simply staggering monument to Sha-Kaan. And his carved face looked out at his domain, eyes forever watching for danger. Nothing like it existed in Balaia and, for all their magic, nothing ever would. This was a construct born of consummate respect and veneration for a leader the Kaan and their Vestare honoured freely and with a fervour lost to the peoples of its kindred dimension.
All the Balaians had stopped to drink in the view. Glancing across at Denser, Hirad saw the awe on his face while Erienne’s held an enraptured smile that had as much to do with the atmosphere of peace and safety as the sights before her. For Hirad, it was like coming home and he closed his eyes and let the feelings of the Kaan wash over him, his limbs tingling, his mind suffused with the thoughts Sha-Kaan let drift through his mind.
The Raven Collection Page 99